The Rainiest Day of Summer
by snowflake912
Summary: After her mother's death Kate Beckett went back to law school with renewed purpose. Now, a fifth-year associate at Cooley Rose, the realities of paying the bills have shackled her with Richard Castle's divorce case. Castle wheedles his way into her life as her past with the NYPD's 12th precinct resurfaces, throwing Kate back into the dangers of her mother's case. Caskett-centric/AU
1. Something Good Coming

Author's Note: This story is my attempt at Castle fanfiction in the AU. I've been obsessing over this for days because there are _so many ways _Castle and Beckett's story could have started. This is just one. It may have been done before. I haven't read enough fanfiction to rule that out, but I'll take my chances and hope my take on it is unique. I would love to hear your thoughts on whether this is a go/no-go.

Disclaimer: I don't own them. Suing me will yield no financial benefits, I promise.

And just this one time, because it's the first chapter...

Summary: After her mother's brutal murder, Kate Beckett went back to law school with renewed purpose. She was going to walk in Johanna Beckett's footsteps until justice was served. Now, a fifth-year associate at Cooley Rose, one of New York's best law firms, the realities of paying the bills have shackled her with Richard Castle's divorce case. Castle wheedles his way into her life as her past with the NYPD's 12th precinct resurfaces, throwing Kate back into the depths of her mother's case where danger lurks, waiting to rob her of everything she had long worked to protect: her career, her family, her heart, her life.

* * *

**The Rainiest Day of Summer**

_1. __Something Good Coming  
_"_Hello, hello, remember me?  
__I'm everything you can't control."  
__(What You Want – Evanescence)_

The cursor blinked tauntingly, a thin black strip against stark, merciless white. Kate Beckett stared at it hard until her office blurred into shapeless gentle pastels.

_Blink. Blink. Blink. _

She released a long, steady breath, set her fingertips against the black keys and began to type.

_Resolution of conflicts: In the event of any conflict between the terms, covenants and restrictions…_

No, that wasn't right. She paused and hit the delete button a few times.

_... between the terms, covenants and conditions contained in this contract…_

That wasn't right either. With a heavy sigh, she sat back in her plush leather chair, feeling the tension curl in the muscles around her spine. The early afternoon Manhattan sunshine spilled peacefully through the open blinds, washing across her Honduran mahogany desk until the rich wood glinted golden brown, a shade oddly reminiscent of Detective Esposito's clever eyes. This color was warmer, not quite as hardened by the years served in the lines of defense and law enforcement. Not that she needed colors to be reminded of their run-in at the courthouse yesterday. She had thought of little else since. The nighttime had found her wide-awake, staring at her bedroom ceiling for hours in darkness, snippets of his words swirling in her mind like a whispered taunt. She hadn't been able to string them together because it wasn't the words that made her feel ill in the pit of her belly. It was the painfully sharp memory of the last time she had seen him. Seven years ago. August 9th. At twenty-two, she had been young – too young – and idealistic, and she had believed that if only she would be given the chance to _look_, there would be answers.

"_You need to let this go, Beckett. There's nothing there. I never should have…" he sighed, a long-suffering sound. "Move on. I can't help you." _

And she had moved on in every sense of the word except the one that mattered.

A short knock drew her gaze away from the empty corner of her desk. She glanced up to find Lisa Hove in her doorframe, eyeing her in tacit concern.

"Samantha wants to see you now if you're not busy," she said with a small, sympathetic smile.

Kate nodded and came to her feet in a pair of black Jimmy Choo pumps. "I'll be right there. Thanks, Lisa." Stepping around the desk, she straightened the slim lapels of her beige suit jacket and rolled her shoulders back. She allowed herself one final thought on Detective Esposito and that fateful summer, and then she put it all aside and started towards Samantha's office. She had walked away from that day, from that summer, for a reason. When she reached the wide double-glass doors, she raised her hand and gently rapped her knuckles against the spotless glass just below the bold black letters.

**Samantha Rose. Managing Partner.**

"Come in," Samantha called out, dropping the memo she'd been perusing in favor of waving her in impatiently.

Kate stepped into the spacious, tastefully decorated office, her eyes wandering for a moment to the floor-to-ceiling windows that captured the stunning New York City skyline. "You asked to see me," she said as Samantha's sharp dark eyes watched her closely over the rims of her reading glasses.

"Yes," she confirmed. "Close the door and have a seat, Kate." She tipped her narrow chin in the direction of the chairs on the other side of her desk.

Resisting the urge to lift a questioning eyebrow, Kate did as she was told and settled into one of the high-backed chairs across from the older woman. "Is something wrong?" she asked cautiously because patience had never been one of Kate Beckett's virtues.

"Well yes, Kate. Something _is_ wrong," she replied, the words slow and measured. It was her courtroom voice – the one that swayed juries aplenty and broke witnesses on the stand. "You're distracted."

"I'm…"

"_You're distracted,_" she cut her off, more firmly this time, and pulled her glasses off the bridge of her nose, allowing them to dangle around her neck. Her coffee-brown eyes pinned Kate to her seat. "You have the lowest billables of all the fifth-year associates. Did you know that?" she challenged.

She didn't, but she wasn't about to admit that. "I've been doing a lot of pro bono work," she admitted quietly, her chin set in a stubborn, unmoving line.

"I know. Pro bono work is important, but you're letting it interfere with your performance and your numbers. I'm afraid you can't afford to do that anymore." Her tone had gentled into something kinder, more nurturing, and Kate felt her heart squeeze like a dry sponge.

She swallowed her pride tightly, shrinking into her seat. "Okay, I'll work on changing my caseload today," she conceded.

"I already have a case for you," Samantha told her, reaching for one of at least a dozen folders lying before her. She slid it across the desk. "Ben Epstein needs an experienced associate on this case."

"Ben…" Kate trailed off as she fastened her fingers around the folder and lifted her indignant gaze to Samantha's unsmiling face. One of the first equity partners at Cooley Rose, Ben Epstein was the head of family law and New York's most notorious divorce lawyer. "I don't want a divorce case."

"I'm not asking," she said, the steel creeping back into her voice. "I want you on this case. It's a straightforward divorce with a high-profile client. I need everything to be kept on the down low. I want it to be clean, and I want our client to be happy."

"Put me as second chair on Clay's case or _any_ one of Tom's cases," she pleaded.

"This is nonnegotiable," Samantha snapped, her narrow, stenciled eyebrows knitting in an irritated frown. "You know the rules, Kate. Family law pays the bills, and you need to pay the bills of all the pro bono work you've been doing."

"If this case is so important, why won't Ben handle it himself?"

Samantha's warning glance told her the woman's patience was beginning to wear thin. "I asked him to hand it over to you. I _brought _this case to you, because as much as you hate to admit it, you need these hours," she reminded her, punctuating every syllable with a pause. "And you're one of my best lawyers. You know that. I trust you to do a good job on this."

Tamping down the rising urge to drop the folder and walk out, Kate tucked the contentious document in the crease of her elbow, holding it against her chest, and stood up. "Okay," she breathed finally, closing her eyes against the anger welling inside her. Samantha was right. She needed to do this. It certainly didn't mean she had to like it. "Thank you," she managed to mutter.

A gentle smile curved the line of Samantha Rose's lips, deepening the telltales of age on her regal face. She had been a stunning woman once, but now she was merely beautiful. "You're welcome," came the gracious response.

With a nod, Kate turned around and started for the door. As her hand closed around the knob, the other woman's voice stilled her.

"I still miss her too, Katie."

(-)(-)(-)(-)

"A _divorce_ case?"

Kate groaned as she brought the Styrofoam cup to her lips and sipped at the steaming, too-sweet vanilla latte. "I know," she mumbled miserably.

With a hearty chuckle, Clayton Hart downed his double espresso in a single, unforgiving swig. "It could be worse," he reasoned, lifting his left shoulder in a noncommittal shrug as he dodged a harried woman in a suit rushing towards the subway station. They were both wrapped up in their warmest winter coats, hands tucked into fine leather gloves, crowded around the slipping heat of their coffees. Despite the deceptively clear skies and sunshine, the early February cold was brutal, but it felt good to be outside of the office for a few minutes.

"It's hard to imagine a case worse than a divorce between a hotshot author and his publisher," she countered, walking along Liberty Street to the brick ledge that served as home to the manicured shrubs of Zuccotti Park and their spot for private coffee breaks. One Liberty Plaza, the office complex where Cooley Rose had been resident for the past eighteen years, towered high before them, blocking the glare of sunlight. "Talk about ego and money," she puffed and leaned against the smooth ledge when it ran low enough to sit on.

Clay followed suit, sitting fully, his longer legs leaving his feet solidly planted on the sidewalk. "Kids?" he asked, looking at her sideways.

Kate shook her head. "Nope. He has a daughter from his first marriage, but there are no issues there. He has full custody," she explained. She'd gone through the file in painstaking detail last night, determined to prove to Samantha that she could nail this case and hopefully use it as leverage to avoid family law altogether. "He has an interesting history of arrests and dabbles with the law. If he's the responsible parent, I shudder to think of that poor child's mother," she mused.

His breathy laughter sent a puff of steam from his lips. "Ouch, snappy judgments there," he commented, his smile begrudgingly amused. "Just because he's a dad doesn't mean he can't have fun."

She hid her guilty, acquiescent smile behind her coffee cup. "I just hate working with Ben. I hate family law, and I especially hate the melodramatics of divorce," she grumbled.

"Samantha's just looking out for you because she cares," he told her, gently like a colt testing the frailty of its new legs.

She swallowed another sip of coffee and could almost feel her mood physically improving with every whiff of caffeine that entered her system. "I know."

"Teacher's pet," he teased, knocking the elbow of her free hand with his lightly.

Kate rolled her eyes over a self-assured grin. As her thoughts inevitably circled back to the courthouse and Detective Esposito, her wandering gaze landed on a cheap ad plastered over the side of a phone booth, the perfect distraction. "_Lose weight and look great naked… naturally_," she read out loud, voice dripping with sarcasm, her giggle barely held in check.

Clay's smile was sweeping and bright against his short, scruffy beard. It turned his serious face into something warm and welcoming. "A problem Kate Beckett does not have," he said finally, confidently, because he _knew_, and his brown eyes smoldered like black unsweetened chocolate as they bore into hers. "Only mere mortals," he added softly.

"Clay," she breathed in quiet admonishment.

"I'd like to see you this weekend, Kate." The words he left unspoken hung heavily between them, and she could hear them just as loudly. _It's been a while_.

It had – hadn't it? She couldn't remember the last time, not that she should. It had always been casual, and it had no effect on their easy friendship. It had never been _more_, but that's what she did remember about the last time – Clay's breathy whispers against her bare skin. _Let's be something, together, Kate._ At the time, she'd brushed them off as spoken in the heat of the moment, but whether consciously or not she hadn't asked him to come over since. "Let's…"

"Talk about this later," he finished for her, a slight frown marring his brow. "I know."

She diverted his knowing gaze. "We…"

"Should head back up," he cut in again, and she hated the accuracy with which he predicted her words. "I know that one, too," he joked, a small smile breaking onto his face. It wasn't particularly happy, just resigned.

Kate leveled an annoyed glare at his handsome profile before stepping away from the ledge, the heels of her boots clicking decisively against the sidewalk. He followed, wordlessly.

(-)(-)(-)(-)

"Richard Castle is in your office."

The meaning of Lisa's words halted Kate mid-brisk-stride. She stopped by her assistant's compulsively organized desk and gaped at her in open confusion. "In my office?" she repeated, dumbfounded. "Now?"

Lisa nodded, a suspicious blush rising high up her neck to bloom onto her full cheeks. "He insisted. Samantha said to let him in," she confessed.

"Great," she mumbled under her breath. "Thanks for the heads up." Downing the remnants of her coffee, she tossed the empty cup in Lisa's trash bin and walked the last stretch to her office at a more relaxed pace, taking the time to plaster on her best client-face and tuck her gloves into the pocket of her gray coat.

As she approached, she observed him through the glass. With his back turned to her, Richard Castle was seated on the chair to the left side of her desk, toying distractedly with the smallest of her marching elephants. She studied his clothes, trying to pick up clues, but found little fault with his navy blazer and washed jeans. He also had some sort of blue, striped scarf wrapped snugly around his neck. When her heels connected with the parquet floor of her office, he lifted his head and his hands quickly returned the elephant to its original position.

"Ms. Beckett," he greeted, rising to his feet as he turned around, overemphasizing the _z_ before his eyes dropped to her ring finger only to find it unadorned. He was _tall_, and his eyes were luminescent as they trailed over her in barely disguised appreciation. His snowy white shirt was perfectly pressed, the collar open to sit his fine, cashmere scarf. His dark brown hair was thick and styled to look like an afterthought, but a rampant lock fell rakishly across his brow, flirting with the inflection of his eyebrow. "_Miss_," he corrected, overweighting the _s_ this time on a quiet hiss.

_Obnoxious_, she mused. _Wonderful_. "Hello, Mister Castle," she intoned evenly, pushing the door closed as she walked up to him and held out her hand.

His larger, warmer hand enclosed her cold digits for the full length of four seconds. Apparently, he had never gotten around to learning the _shake _part of a handshake. He held her hand, suspended in mid-air like a staggered sentence. It was borderline inappropriate, and Kate made it a point to clear her throat as she retrieved her hand. "Call me Rick, please," he said silkily as she made her way around the desk to her chair.

Her short nod was politely dismissive. Sliding her coat off her shoulders, she draped it over the back of her chair and gracefully sank into the supple leather. There, that was much better. Staring at him across her desk was empowering. She was about to make his problems go away. Kate heaved in a great breath and began, "So, Mister Castle, your wife…"

"… soon-to-be-ex-wife," he intervened from his reoccupied chair.

"Your soon-to-be-ex-wife," she echoed with exaggerated patience, her smile saccharine. "She filed for divorce on January 12th, twenty-nine days ago, citing irreconcilable differences," she recited from memory, reaching into her top drawer for the file. Richard Castle nodded in silent acknowledgment. "We need to respond to the petition by tomorrow at the latest."

"Then I'm just in time!" he enthused.

Kate narrowed her eyes at him and flipped through the pages in search of a document. "What would you like to respond with, Mister Castle?"

"I agree. Differences cannot be reconciled," he said calmly. "Look at that, we agree on something," he muttered more to himself than to her, and it made him smile, something small and bitter, and Kate felt a pang of empathy.

"Good. I'll get that out today then," she said and jotted a quick reminder on her yellow notepad. "I'm going to reach out to Ms. Cowell's attorney to potentially set up a meeting in the next couple of days where we can begin to negotiate the division of assets," she explained. "I trust you know how the proceedings work?"

"Ah, yes, not my first divorce. Thank you for being so gracious as to point that out, Miss Beckett." There was no accusation in his voice, just tired realization. He sounded _bored_.

Kate flushed in embarrassment. It was an admittedly rookie mistake, and far from tactful. Damn him. "I'm sorry…"

"No, don't be," he said quickly and gave his dark head a hard shake. "You didn't imply anything that wasn't true. I do know exactly how this works. Over the next few days, potentially weeks, depending on how agreeable we're both feeling, Gina and I will be sharing a boardroom with you and her attorney as we try to haggle each other for everything we're worth. Well, as she tries to haggle _me_ for everything I'm worth, given that Gina essentially works for me," he narrated in the manner of someone describing the weather. "If we can't reach an agreement, we'll both build our cases and let a judge make a decision on the fate of our marital assets," he continued, lips curling in a sardonic smile. "In God we trust."

Biting back a smile, Kate sat back in her chair, her manicured nails absently scratching against the surface of her desk. "So, Mister Castle, how long were you and Ms. Cowell married?"

"Two years give or take a couple of months."

"How long have you been separated?"

"Thirty days."

"Did you acquire any significant assets during your marriage that would be considered marital property?"

He sighed. "Too many I'm afraid."

Kate looked up from her notepad where she was jotting down his answers in shorthand. "Could you please elaborate?" she prodded, and she could tell the display of irritated impatience amused him by the hint of a smile that relaxed the set of his stubbly jaw.

"Of course," he responded pleasantly. "Where do I start? There is a mansion in Newport, Rhode Island, the house in the Hamptons, a Ferrari and a Porsche. There are also some expensive artworks and sculptures in my loft here in New York and in the other two houses, not to mention the furniture, electronics, china…" he trailed off. "You get the picture. I also published two books in that timeframe. I'm not sure how we'll handle that during the divorce. I'd like to have everything finalized before I publish my latest book."

She hummed thoughtfully. "Any particular reason for that?"

"I have a feeling Gina might be… less willing to cooperate if she knew what I had in store for…" he stopped himself and refocused his gaze on her as if he'd been a million miles away for a few seconds, dallying in a universe of his creations. "I'm sure you have no idea what I'm talking about. Gina is my publisher, so she cares about the fate of my characters, particularly my multimillion-dollar-grossing lead character, Derrick Storm. Let's just say, the latest book has a very _special_ ending." His grin was wicked, and it lit up his striking blue eyes until they were almost identical to the stripes on his scarf. Kate didn't have an exact name for the shade. She was torn somewhere between azure and cobalt.

"I see," she murmured at last. "I'll do my best to wrap this up in due time," she promised. "Could we talk about which assets are important to you and which ones you are more willing to part with?"

His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth in a _tsking_ sound of regret. "I'm afraid I have to cut this short. I promised my daughter I would be home with her favorite Chinese takeout when she gets back from school today," he told her as he nudged his sleeve to peer at the bold face of his expensive silver watch. "Can we pick this up tomorrow?" he asked with a genial smile, all bad-boy charm and childish earnestness, a lethal combination at best.

"Of course, whatever is most convenient for you, Mister Castle," she answered with an understanding smile of her own. Samantha would be proud.

He lowered his head in what could pass for a grateful nod, but Kate had the distinct impression that she was being toyed with. Before he could come to his feet, he leaned across her desk suddenly, his gaze unerringly directed at hers. His eyes and his body were unwavering. Her large desk felt dwarfed, and he seemed much too close for comfort. "Do you know you have _gorgeous _eyes?" he posed rhetorically, his husky voice a few decibels lower. If not for the open admiration in his gaze, his tone could almost be described as clinical.

Breath stolen, she opened her mouth to say something, but for a full, mortifying second no sound came out. Kate pressed her lips together and swallowed past the parchedness in her throat. "I'll ask Lisa to schedule an appropriate time for our meeting tomorrow," she said finally, her voice steady and sure. Back to business.

He rose to his feet, an immediate towering presence that made her modestly sized office seem small. "Perfect. Thank you."

Kate mimicked his movements and was secretly glad for her five-inch heels. They helped alleviate his height advantage. Without them, she suspected the top of her head would reach his chin. "Thank _you_, Mister Castle, for choosing Cooley Rose to represent you," she said and reached out to shake his hand again.

This time he was cheekier in holding onto her hand. His grip was strong, smooth and dry – the handshake of a man who was confident and bold. If she had to venture a guess, she would say he was a man who was used to getting what he wanted. "Ben Epstein is the best," he replied easily. "And Ben says you're the best. I hope you live up to that standard, Miss Beckett."

He let her hand go then as if he'd been holding onto it to ensure he had her full attention – as if he believed she could look anywhere else. He _dominated_ her space effortlessly. "You won't be disappointed," she pledged.

"I'm sure I won't." With that and a final nod, he took two steps to the door and pulled it open. "See you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," she parroted.

**TBC.**

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A/N: Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I would love to hear your thoughts. Also just for reference, I picture Samantha Rose to be a Sally Field look-a-like and Clayton Hart is a Guillaume Canet type. Reviews are love. x


	2. Walk a Little Straighter, Daddy

Author's Note: Thank you for your wonderful reviews and for everyone who followed / favorited this. I'm glad there's interest in seeing where this is going. I have plans! :) I'm experimenting with shorter chapters that allow me to update more frequently. I had two more scenes planned for this chapter but that would have doubled it and would have taken longer for me to get it out. Does this work better or are longer (later) chapters better? On another note, this is a little angsty / dark, but I promise there's a point to all of it.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Poor college student on a stipend.

* * *

_2. __Walk a Little Straighter, Daddy  
_"_Some devil is stuck inside me. Why can't I set it free?  
__I wish I was dead, and you're breathing, just so that you could know.  
__Some angel is stuck inside me. Why can't I set you free?"  
__(Some Devil – Devil Matthews)_

"_Esposito." Crisp. Impatient. Like maybe he had more important things to do than take her calls on random evenings in the middle of the week._

_Kate slammed her eyes shut and dropped her free hand to the rim of the empty wine glass on her kitchen counter. With the phone lodged firmly between ear and shoulder, her fingertips absently traced the brittle rim of the Christofle bowl, and she counted to three. _

"_Hello?" Annoyed now. He definitely had more important things to do than wait for her to make up her mind._

"_Hi, this is Kate… Beckett," she stammered quickly. _

"_Beckett," he echoed, and she could almost see the slow realization settling across his dark features. "Hey, Beckett. How are you doing? Is everything alright?" he asked, and there was enough concern in his voice to warm her. He cared, which meant there was hope. _

"_I'm fine, thanks," she muttered dismissively, curling a hand into the ends of her sun-kissed hair and twisting the strands around her fingers. "I-uh-I'm calling to talk about my mother's case." _

The early morning thirty-minute commute from her East Village apartment to her father's place in TriBeCa had become a weekly ritual over the past three years. Kate couldn't quite remember how it had happened, only that it was their way of making sure they saw each other at least once a week. She would show up with the 'best pastries in town', and he would brew coffee and poach eggs – sometimes fry bacon if he was in a particularly chipper mood. She always planned to be there on Tuesdays but rarely made it before Thursdays. Sometimes, she thought he liked the unpredictability of her presence, like it shook up his days in a way that helped him cope with the emptiness.

This Thursday morning found her staring vacantly at the sparse traffic of pre-eight subway commuters, her fingers curved tightly around a bag of random pastries, her other palm sitting protectively over the lip of her laptop bag.

_The silence was deafening._

_She wished he would say something – anything. She wished her glass of wine wasn't empty. She wished she hadn't promised to have only one. "Please," she whispered. _

"_Beckett," he started gently. "I already told you. I can't help you."_

"_I don't want help," she said quickly, pleadingly. God, she was becoming pathetic. "Just closure – a copy of the case file, for my records. Please!"_

_He released a harsh breath into his mouthpiece that scratched against her eardrum. It was pure frustration. "I can't do that, Beckett."_

_She let the silence linger this time – for effect – because she was becoming a master at manipulating people's emotions inside and outside of the courtroom. "Please," she repeated._

She was jolted out of her reverie as the subway car screeched to a halt at the Franklin Street station. Hefting her belongings, she filed out of the subway and made her way up to the frigid Manhattan sidewalk. Well-trained in heels, her feet quickly covered the two blocks to Jim's apartment on Greenwich Street. Fishing his keys out of her bag, she let herself into the reception area of the apartment complex and slipped into the open elevator.

"_That could get me in a lot of trouble," he told her. She could almost hear him shaking his head. "It's not worth it. You've moved on," Esposito insisted, and she wasn't sure whether he was trying to convince her or himself._

"_It's been ten years," she said softly. "Since my mother's death." _

_A long pause. "Yeah," he breathed. _

"_I would never tell anyone," she promised. "All I need is closure." _

"_That file won't give you closure."_

Her key fit perfectly in the well-oiled slot of apartment 4C. By sheer force of habit, she twisted it to the left, but it wouldn't budge. Kate frowned and tried the knob. The door fell open without fuss. A chill crawled down her spine, her senses immediately picking up clues her mind couldn't quite assimilate. It was way too quiet. Dropping her bags just inside the hallway, she noiselessly crept into the apartment, her blood pounding fiercely through her veins, a hundred violent images threatening her sanity. The six seconds it took her to make it to the living room felt like a lifetime.

She found him lying between the couch and the coffee table, his jaw slack, his stained clothes hopelessly rumpled, his face pressed into a pool of his own vomit. He was snoring, a gentle, lulling noise that sounded like her childhood. There was an empty bottle of Jack Daniel's next to his relaxed hand by the foot of the couch.

It smelled rancid.

As she stood frozen in the entryway to his living room, she viciously oscillated between relief, despair, disbelief and disgust. For a fleeting moment, she entertained the thought of leaving him sprawled there, in this bizarre world where everything felt utterly surreal. With trembling hands, she dug her phone out of her pocket and sent three brief messages before setting it aside and walking into the living room. The ruckus roused him seconds before she reached his side.

His heavy eyelids moved slowly in panicked blinks, and when the stench registered in his mind, he gagged.

Kate fought her own gag reflex by pressing a hand to her mouth and changed routes to reach his open kitchen first. She grabbed a roll of paper towels and the Lysol all-purpose cleaner off his kitchen counter.

"Katie?" he croaked out, his voice raw and parched. He was blinking harder now, his bloodshot eyes finally adjusting to the light spilling through the open blinds. A small, indulgent smile graced his soiled face as he dragged himself into a sitting position, his back propped against the brown leather couch. "Is it Tuesday?" he husked, frowning as she kneeled beside him and sprayed his mess with the disinfectant and covered it with paper towels. His reaction was slow-coming as he began to brush her hands away irritably. "I got it, Katie. I got it. You don't have to clean for me."

Kate tore off two clean paper towels and pressed them into his intrusive hands. "Wipe your face, Dad," she suggested quietly.

That stilled him for a second. He took the dry towels and wiped at his chin and cheek, the look in his eyes suddenly vacant. "She would have turned fifty-eight last week, Katie," he told her, like she had forgotten.

She had thought it would be the ten-year anniversary of her mother's death last month that sent him over the edge – not this. It wasn't a milestone birthday, and it had been a week – almost. "I know," she whispered hoarsely, sliding away from him to plop down on the other side of the table, her legs curled beneath her like an afterthought.

He scrutinized her like maybe she didn't really _know_. She felt treasonous under that pained, naked stare. "She always said she would retire when she was fifty-eight," he said finally, and she could tell he was still drunk by the heavy way his tongue lolled around his mouth. "Do you remember that?" he queried on a bitter chuckle. "We both didn't believe her. She loved what she did too much to ever sit on the sidelines," he observed with that knowing curve to his lips that could only be borne of retrospect. "She loved it to death," he whispered brokenly.

She stubbornly blinked back her own tears. She was _not _going to cry. "Dad…"

"What?" he snapped. Jim Beckett was not a violent drunk. He was a sad, weepy drunk, who wanted to talk to her about everything that made her scars feel like open wounds. "I just miss her so much," he sobbed, and the suddenness of that pained, desperate sound felt like a sucker punch.

God, why did everything hurt so much? "Dad," she tried again, struggling to keep the desperate edge out of her voice. "You've been sober for three years and eight months," she reminded him softly. _How could you do this to me? I can't be alone now._

"Three years and eight months," he cried. "Since you moved back, Katie. I wanted to be good for you. I wanted to be so good for you." The onslaught of tears just wouldn't stop. "I could never replace her."

She swallowed hard and came to her feet. Closing the distance between them, she reached down and grasped his frail elbow. "I never wanted you to replace her, Dad," she said gently as she pulled him to his feet. "Let's get you in the shower."

"_Don't say no. Please, just think about it."_

_There was resignation in his voice when he finally conceded. "Okay, I'll think about it."_

(-)(-)(-)(-)

"Richard Castle is in your office."

Kate stopped dead in her tracks and turned incredulous eyes on the stocky blonde, who had known her long enough to stand brave in the face of the infamous Kate Beckett glare. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," she hissed.

Lisa shook her head sympathetically, and Kate wasted no time demanding explanations. She had a pretty good idea how Richard Castle had managed to talk himself into her private space – in her absence – again. Jaw tightly clenched, she fairly stalked into her office, where he was fiddling with one of her highlighters.

"You don't spend much time here," Richard Castle observed out loud as he dropped her pens and came to his feet, ever so gallant. He watched her hang her coat by the door.

She gritted her teeth. Despite her hellish morning, she had to be _pleasant_. He was a client, a wealthy one at that, and Kate would be damned if she tripped over her father's addiction and Richard Castle's persistence on the fast track to partner. "I'm sorry, Mister Castle," she said finally and turned to face him, poker face firmly in place. Stepping closer, she placed her hand in his proffered one and gave it a brief shake before stepping around her desk to occupy her chair. "I had a family emergency," she explained quickly and propped both elbows on her desk defensively. "I asked Ben to handle this meeting. Was there a problem?" she asked, hoping the contrived concern in her voice sounded more sincere to his ears than it did to hers.

"Yes, there was a problem," he replied easily, his serious face melting into a roguish grin that made his eyes sparkle bright, bright blue. "I didn't want Ben. I wanted you." It was a simple, unadorned declaration. It was ten shades of inappropriate but borderline innocent – a talent Richard Castle seemed to have mastered.

She made a conscious effort to stop gaping at him. The amount of nerve the man possessed was nothing short of mind-blowing. "Ben is – _was _– perfectly capable of handling that meeting. I assure you, we're keeping each other posted on every aspect of your divorce."

He shrugged, undaunted by her logic. "It's okay. I don't mind waiting," he admitted, his voice colored with something that sounded suspiciously like guilt.

Narrowing her gaze on him, Kate studied him for a moment. Guilt? Was he using her to avoid something? What could a millionaire, playboy author possibly want to avoid? "Alright then," she smiled convincingly. "Let's get started, shall we?"

"Yeah," he agreed. "Wait!"

She looked up from the yellow notepad as she pushed the cap off her pen. "Hmm?"

"Your family emergency, is everything alright? I'm sorry I didn't ask earlier. I sometimes lose my train of thought when…" he stopped himself short of finishing that sentence as his earnest gaze locked on hers. It was probably for the best. Judging by the way he was looking at her, there was no good ending to that sentence.

"I handled it," she reassured him with a grateful smile. "Nothing serious," she added for good measure.

It was the most curious thing, but he looked completely unconvinced like he could see far beneath her façade, far beneath any weakness she would ever admit even to herself. The notion made her blood run hot and cold as it pounded in her ears. It was completely ridiculous. A slight frown contorted his brow, but he nodded to himself once. "Good," he murmured at last.

Kate shifted her attention back to the task at hand. This was good. It was a much-needed distraction, and it kept the image of her father's trembling jaw just beyond her grasp. "Let's start with the Newport mansion," she said. "I have all the documents relevant to the purchase. You're the sole owner on the deed," she noted.

"I bought it," he muttered in response, but the Matryoshka dolls on her desk distracted – rather, _mesmerized_ – him. He was eyeing them with burning curiosity. She had them laid out with the largest doll popped open and the next doll smiling at her guests.

Kate bit her lip, amazed by the sudden urge to smile on this cursed day. "Go ahead, Mister Castle," she encouraged him, and his embarrassed stare snapped up to hers eagerly. _What a child_. It wasn't like he had asked her permission the other times he had fiddled with the trinkets on her desk. It wasn't like she even knew what he was doing in her office under the ruse of waiting for her.

He could barely curb his grin as he picked them up. "Where did you get these?" he asked and methodically began to take apart the dolls, pausing to admire the intricate paintings on each of the wooden-carved little faces.

"Ukraine."

That got his attention. He glanced at her with more than a little admiration reflected in the depths of his expressive eyes. "You've been to Ukraine?"

"Semester abroad in Kiev," she answered succinctly and began to scribble on her notepad, a failed attempt to draw him back to the topic at hand.

"_You speak Russian_?" he gasped.

Kate gave him an exasperated look. "I can hold a conversation," she replied modestly.

"That's amazingly ho-_clever_," he corrected, blue eyes wide as saucers, and Kate didn't think she'd ever seen a jaw literally drop before in her life. "What other languages do you speak?" he pressed.

"Are we playing twenty-one questions?" That effectively deflated his enthusiasm. _Good_, she thought. She had no time for this.

"No, I'm sorry. I'll concentrate," he promised somberly and began to put the dolls back together.

"Great. Let's play tug-of-war with Gina instead."

**TBC.**

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A/N: Thank you for reading. Reviews are love, and who doesn't love _love_? x


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